


Leave Your Fears Behind

by Lokesenna



Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom!Thomas, M/M, Masturbation, Tom tells Loki what to do... and Loki does it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokesenna/pseuds/Lokesenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Take off your clothes," Thomas says, a little smirk curving the corner of his mouth as his voice drops an octave. He breathes, "And <i>kneel</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Your Fears Behind

Tom Hiddleston has done and been many things over the course of his life. Sometimes he thinks his life can be measured out in its decades, and each of the people he is and has been would be a stranger to the others – such is the life of an actor. What would the happy oblivious child of his first twelve years of life have to say to the naïve precocious college student, who was only willing to love those things that could not hurt him? Or that student to the (eternally) twenty-year-old actor, on the verge of jettisoning a bright future in academics to pursue an impossible career?

What would any of those other selves have to say to the man he was at thirty, a man who, in his many roles, has no common history with any of them, a Prince of Asgard, a King of England, a Captain of the British Cavalry, a _Vampire?_

Some of his past selves might have recognised the man he now is at thirty-one. Lost again, for the moment. Sometimes Tom thinks he has been lost ever since he had started down this path, however hard he tries to make others believe he is fine. Enough so that it has ceased to seem like being lost, because at least there's a continuity of experience, and anything you do for long enough begins to seem familiar, and having spent more of his life wandering in an ever changing environment, in the minds of characters that are so very different from he, himself… perhaps those characters are home.

At the very least, Tom has enough experience of being lost to recognise this condition in others. He knows every single way there is to pretend – to yourself, to others – that you know where you are and where you are going, because the illusion of direction is an important survival mechanism… at least it is when it works.

Loki – open gaze and easy smile that never reaches those emerald hues and Tom can see the shadows at the back of those eyes – is lost. He could tell from the moment they met.

He has done and been many things over the course of his life, and seen lives – his own as well as others – fall to pieces. The blond has taught himself not to mind. His father said once that entropy is a natural process of all systems. W. B. Yeats must have been a physicist then: “Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

He knows – having spent decades listening to his father’s lectures – that living systems spend their lives fighting entropy until they lose… he supposes it's another way of describing what they've all been doing; assuming there's such a thing as cultural or historical entropy. And Chris Hemsworth with his easy Australian mentality would say that the house always wins in the end, but even though it happens to be true – Nineveh and black holes are proof if there’s ever been any – Chris has spent his life and career refusing to face facts and just gone with it. He’s been hard-working and lucky, bending reality through will and determination. Now it's time for Tom to apply these hard-learned lessons: reverse entropy or simply ignore it… and teach Loki to ignore it too.

The first aspect of the problem is communication. It's an interesting puzzle, since what Tom needs to communicate with Loki about is something that Loki doesn't want to admit exists – of course the raven knows there's a problem.

Loki defines it differently: he isn't lost, everything else is.

It creates an entertaining exercise in perfect solipsism – or it would be entertaining if Loki's existence in a Loki-centric cosmos weren't leading to chaos and disasters rejoicing on every side, since Loki is gregarious by nature – he needs others, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, whether it is their approval, their subjugation… he needs them and does not take well to isolation, however imposed. Pride and fear – bound together by stubbornness – are a bad combination. It's been a very long time since Tom's been afraid of anything, and he has known a certain truth for even longer: that finding one's way into a character’s head and into a psyche involve much the same skills, and that people are far more easily-manipulated than scripts.

He realises what his approach will have to be some time before he decides to commit to it. Not because it shocks him – few things do anymore – or because it's intrinsically objectionable, but because of its potential to add complication to their lives… lives that are already complicated and growing more complex by the day. A runaway Prince and an actor with enough fan girls to raise an army. In the end, it is a transaction, albeit one Loki – who turns up at random to satisfy his curiosity on the man who knows so very much of him and seems bearable enough to spend a few moments with – is not aware of participating in, and the question is simple: is the value offered less than or at least equivalent to the value received? If everything in his father's world can be expressed in terms of mathematics, most of the important matters in Tom's can be derived from economic forces: the desire to gain or hold or increase value. If more people understood basic economics, the study of history would be a simple matter.

He decides that it is.

Loki is worth preserving – life and sanity and form and function – and it will not, after all, be so very difficult. He's already aware of Loki's tastes and inclinations. Possibly more so than Loki is, but Loki is not only lost but also alone, and it is difficult to form an absolute understanding of the self in isolation. This is a matter in which Tom will be able to assist Loki toward achieving a greater clarity, and if that clarity is something that Loki intermittently finds unwelcome, his distaste for that self-knowledge will be offset by the distraction that Tom also intends to provide. It would not do to allow Loki to wander off again before Tom is finished helping him find himself.

 

*

 

It's the first time he's ever been to Thomas' apartment… usually he finds the man in public places, on his run through the park, on his way to get coffee, while he is shopping – he likes seeing the Midgardian in everyday life, the man who put himself in his head so perfectly. Loki is not really certain why he's here; all he knows is that he couldn't stay away, not when Thomas suggested on his run earlier that he might like to drop by nine o’clock. Loki's pretty certain that he and Thomas are _not_ on those kinds of terms, but here he is.

He knows that everything he had ever done on a whim had just made things worse, had made him dig his own grave and the fact that he can’t stop himself despite knowing so makes him feel like that time centuries ago, when he had been a young princeling and his steed had galloped off with him down a very, _very_ steep hill and there had been no way for him to stop it. The god is not going to admit the thought still scares him. He won’t.

He lifts his hand and knocks at the door, the polite, Midgardian way to go about it. Why? He doesn’t know.

There's a wait long enough for Loki to wonder what he's doing here, why Thomas invited him, to decide to leave - although it’s really only a few moments - before the door opens. Loki blinks in surprise.

He's seen Thomas in Midgardian formal wear, and he has seen him in a cardigan and shirt and denims… but he's never seen Thomas like this. A wife beater and a pair of loose thin, striped cotton pants, and Loki feels his face getting hot. The mortal looks like he's just gotten out of bed and Loki doesn't know where to rest his eyes, and it doesn't help at all that Thomas is barefoot. When he finally gets himself sorted out enough to get his eyes back on Thomas' face, the blond is smiling, and oh, Lord, that doesn't help at all, because there's something in that smile of his that just makes Loki want to roll over and purr, and that's not the way things are supposed to be, not at all, not with the God of Lies and Mischief. No.

There's one, two beats of silence, and Loki realises that Thomas’ waiting for him to say something, and he takes a deep breath and realises in horror that he has absolutely no idea what to say. _Silvertongue turned to lead?_ A voice haunts in the backdrop of his mind.

So he takes another deep breath and coughs, because he forgets to exhale, and says, "Wine. I brought wine. I am aware of your realm’s etiquette."

And Thomas’ smile warms a little, for just a moment, and Loki feels as if he's done something right and he feels like he wants to please Thomas, but no, that is _not_ his job. The mortal hums, "You didn’t have to, darling, but thank you." He steps back, opening the door wider so Loki can enter.

And Loki isn't sure why it's so hard to force himself to take that single step over Thomas’ threshold, because the mortal could never hurt him and Loki wouldn't have come here if he didn't want to, and he's tired of things that don't make any sense, so he shoves all that confusion down into the back of his mind where he doesn't have to listen to it and walks inside.

He's not certain what he was expecting, but not this. The apartment isn’t at all like most cluttered mortal homes he’d spent the night in since he had arrived here, and the lighting is a lot less bright. Either Thomas hasn't paid his electric bill lately – which is unlikely – or he's got a real thing for mood lighting: once Loki gets into the hallway and the door is shut and locked behind him it's dark, and when he gets to the living room the only light is that of about a dozen white pillar candles over on the sideboard. It's enough light to show Loki that the living room is a lot brighter than his preconceptions have led him to imagine. French decor, if he recalls the style magazine right he’d once read whilst staying at an abandoned family home. All whites and light wood and airy. Bookcases, couches, chairs, a wood-and-glass coffee table and there are a few things on the walls but it's too dark to make out just what they are.

"Planning to keep a god in the dark?" he asks, a brow arched.

"Not for long," Thomas answers.

He feels the heat of Thomas’ body as the mortal approaches, and Loki's mind just freezes at the proximity, because Thomas here, in the warm and flickering shadows of the actor’s living room, is a different man entirely than Thomas on screen, or Thomas in a suit waiting on the tube on his way to a meeting with his agent... Thomas anywhere Loki has ever encountered him, in fact. This… this is Thomas. _Thomas_ rather than Thomas. More intimate, more himself. He feels Thomas’ hands slide around his wrist, warm and slender and calloused and slip down over the back of his hand and take the weight of the wine he's forgotten he's holding. It's an effort to let go.

"I'll just put this in the kitchen. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?" Thomas asks.

"Yes," Loki answers in careful politeness. He sits down on the couch, feeling light-boned and as if he doesn't know what the Hel he is doing here. It is a good assessment of the situation, because he really has no damned clue (what he knows is that the back of his hand still burns where Thomas touched him, and his palm tingles with the craving to have turned his hand over and taken Thomas’ hand in his own.) He cannot imagine why he had been called here. Thomas had obviously wanted him over - he'd suggested, he'd even told him a time… and then there was that cosmic call, that pull, it was strongest when the mortal wished for his presence. He can't imagine why Thomas wanted him here at all, now that he thinks about it – it isn't as if they're going to watch television or anything. And it isn't as if they're going to have a nice chat, because he's been following the actor around for long enough to know that he and Thomas don't have one damned thing in common besides the odd book they have both read… and a certain craving for pancakes. And Loki's late to that party anyway… Thomas was well into a third of his mortal life, and he wishes that knowledge would stop hurting, but it won't.

Another thing Loki wishes is that Thomas would turn on some lights, because he believes (somehow) that would make it easier to think, but apparently Thomas knows his own apartment well enough to find his way around it in the dark. Loki stares into the bank of candles, dazzling himself with the flames, and hears the sound of the refrigerator door open and close. He's working out sentences and speeches and explanations in his head (he's pretty sure that questions would be a bad idea) that all come down to: 'time to go, apologies that I have bothered you,' but then Thomas is back, sitting down right next to him on the couch and nudging his hand with a cold bottle. Loki vaguely remembers saying he'd like a drink, and he can't exactly jump up and bolt the moment Thomas hands him one, so he takes it. Beer… Midgardian and very unlike the mortal’s usual choice of drink. Hm. Whatever. Maybe it'll give him time to think.

The beer is ice-cold and his mouth is so dry it hurts. He tips the bottle back and gulps. The beer's so cold it doesn't have any taste at all, so cold it starts a dull ache through his sinuses and in response his lips turn blue to make up for the weakness of his Æsir physique, and all that cold doesn't do one damned thing to cut the feeling of fever he's carried ever since Thomas opened that door.

"Careful," Thomas says, reaching out to touch him lightly on the knee. "You don't want to drink too fast."

Loki swallows hard, already lowering the bottle (pretty light in his hand now), turning automatically toward the touch and the voice, and all that does is bring his knee over to press up against the blond’s. In the back of his mind Loki's expecting Thomas to shift away, but he doesn't. The surprise of it makes him look up. Thomas’ face is luminous in the candlelight. His face is turned towards him, and even half-masked as it is with the shadows the candles cast, Loki is sure that Thomas is watching him intently.

"Why am I here?" Loki blurts out.

"I called for you, and you came," Thomas answers, and his voice is sweet and soft and matter-of-fact. "Why do you suppose you did that, Loki?"

Loki doesn't know – or he does know, but he’s denying it – and the answer crowding his throat and begging for release is the wrong answer, he knows it's the wrong answer, so he tips his bottle up again. The beer is a degree or two warmer now. He drains the bottle. "You tell me," he answers.

"I get into trouble when I tell people things they already know," Thomas answers, and there's something wrong about the way he says it. The tone and the words don't go together, because the words are apologetic, and maybe like the actor is even making a jest, but the tone isn't anything like that. It's as sharp and unforgiving as a knife; threat and warning and the contrast makes Loki dizzy. What kind of trouble? he wants to ask, because if Thomas is in trouble, he wants...

"I should go," Loki says, and his throat is dry and his voice isn't quite steady. He can feel his pulse thudding in his temples, like a painless ache of the head.

"You just got here," Thomas answers chidingly. "And you shouldn't teleport so soon after drinking, you’ll end up in Muspelheim. I'll get you another drink. Maybe later we can break into the wine you brought." He gets to his feet.

It's as if Thomas’ absence sets Loki free to think, but what he's thinking about is what the mortal just said, and he can't make those last two sentences go together in any rational fashion. He gets to his feet – okay, maybe he can't magick away (the blond is probably right about that, because he needs his wits about him to do so) but he can walk – but by the time he has, Thomas is back again, bottle in hand. He reaches out his free hand and places it on Loki's shoulder, and Loki can feel the heat of it even through his garments. Thomas doesn't press down, but Loki feels his knees buckle and then he's sitting on the couch again. He takes the bottle when it's offered to him, clutching it as if it can save him (save him from what?)

"You are not drinking," he says aloud, because somewhere in the swirl of thoughts he doesn't want to examine too closely is the notion of parity – that he wants to be on an equal footing with Thomas, or wants Thomas on an equal footing with him – and it's something he tries not to think about for he knows it's stupid. He is a God, he is _Loki_ … no matter how much he drinks, he would remain a long way above a simple mortal. Right? _Right?_

Thomas – still standing – gestures toward the coffee table, and Loki sees a tumbler there, its surface beaded with moisture. The candlelight makes it glow as if it's lit from within. Scotch, Loki supposes. Thomas picks it up and sits down again, as close as before, and Loki really wishes he wouldn't. He'd like to press the bottle in his hands against his forehead – or just pour it over himself – but he can't. He's a guest here.

The mortal raises his glass to his lips, and Loki hears ice clink. He sees candlelight slide around the rim of the glass, and realises he's staring at Thomas’ face, the blond’s mouth, and he won't. He won't. He turns his head deliberately and stares into the candle flames instead.

"What do you want?" he hears himself ask.

"Ah," Thomas says, and he sounds approving, and Loki desperately wishes the note of approval in Thomas’ voice didn't make him feel so damned good. "I want you to answer the question."

And Loki can't think of any question he's been asked since he got here, and he only realises after he's taken a swallow – nerves, the need to do something with his hands – that it probably isn't such a good idea to go on drinking, and he feels more light-headed than the bottle of beer he's already drunk could account for, and he can still feel the press of Thomas’ knee against his knee, or… thigh… and he isn't sure whether it's really there right now or not. "Question," he says, and the single word comes out flat and grating.

Most people would at least tell him what the question is at this point, if the point is to get an answer. Thomas decides to lecture.

"Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living. You know him, I'm sure – you're not an uneducated man when it comes to my earthly philosophers, Loki. Most people don't examine their lives, or their motivations, and as a result they blunder through a series of easily-preventable disasters… and they never get what they really want."

"You invited me here to find out what I want?" Loki asks. He tries hard not to sound as incredulous as he feels.

"No," Thomas says, and there's a note in his voice as if Loki's given the wrong answer to a question Thomas knows perfectly well he knows the right answer to, and he doesn't want to look back toward the sound of that voice, but he can't stop himself. "I invited you here so that you could tell me what you want."

Thomas’ eyes are unyielding, blue and intense, a light furrow to those brows and he looks as if Loki is the only thing that’s important in this moment… and Loki thinks of the way your senses get flipped around sometimes, so that cold burns, and heat – for one shocking instant – feels like ice, and in that instant he doesn't know whether Thomas loves him or hates him, but he can feel the force of the mortal’s will. A force like heat or cold or gravity, and he feels the strength in it, and he's so caught by it that he loses the battle not to listen.

_I want to stop. I do not want to fuck up. Please help me._

How can one mortal not even a fraction of the age that Loki is, make him feel so very small?

He doesn’t want to think that… it is loss and defeat, because he's always been the picture of composed and a strength he did not truly have – others come to him for answers and advice… and if he cannot be strong enough to carry that weight he doesn't know who he is and he feels everything crumble down slowly.

 _Damn you, Thomas_.

And while Loki's struggling to unhear that inner voice, Thomas reaches out and cups the side of his face in his hand. The mortal has been holding the glass; his hand is chilled and wet. It feels good, and Loki closes his eyes, and _cannot, should not, must not_ flickers through his mind like that cursed lightning his brother calls on, but he's come so far into disaster already, and deep inside where he doesn't want to look; where he can't keep from seeing, there's a part of him that just wants to stop. Be stopped. In any way it takes.

"It's all right, Loki," Thomas says gently, the kindness strong in his voice. "But you need to tell me."

Thomas’ thumb traces over his cheekbone, and Loki realises he's pressing his face against Thomas’ palm, and that Thomas is letting him. He hears a click – him setting down his glass – and then he feels the bottle being removed from his hand and set aside as well.

Then Thomas’ hand – his other hand – comes down on Loki's thigh. As if Thomas is laying claim to him, and that – the thought of that, of being claimed – makes Loki feel as if he's drugged and drowning and being rescued, all at once. He feels the ache of want, of need; feels himself getting hard, and it's sex, and it's more than that. He doesn't know what to do about it, because he hasn't known what to do about anything for so long.

"Thomas, I…," Loki says, and he isn't even sure what he's asking for, but he's asking.

Silence, and he knows that the actor is waiting; waiting for truth and honesty and for Loki to follow orders and do what he's been told and suddenly he can't breathe against the pressure in his chest, because he's been waiting, hoping for this for so long and he knows it's his salvation, grace through works and the hope of Valhalla, and it's hard – it's agony – to reach out for it and he couldn't do it if it were only what he wanted but Loki knows it's what he needs.

"I need," he says, and each word, each syllable, is like a weight of iron chain, being bound on him, being lifted from him. "You. To. Help. Me." He can't breathe, he has to fling his head back to gasp for air, and Thomas’ hand slides to the back of his neck, holding him, cradling him, Thomas won't let him fall. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, at the shadows moving there. "I cannot do this any more," he whispers, as if he's reading words written there. It's easier than thinking he's telling the truth.

"You're wrong," Thomas tells him, and there's no pity in his voice. "You've just been trying to do it alone. That's been your mistake. We'll correct it now."

Thomas’ hand is still on the back of his neck, not resting there but gripping, holding on with a pressure just short of pain, and it's that, that touch, that lets Loki lower his head and look at him again. It's hard, and Loki's done a lot of hard things in his life, but he suddenly realises that all anyone has ever asked of him, all most of them ever asked, was bravery and a willingness to sacrifice himself, and it wasn't a little thing, but it was something he could give. This is different. He doesn't know who he'll be if he takes himself apart, lets Thomas take him apart this way. He doesn't know if he'll like that god. He doesn't know if that god will be able to do what Loki defines himself by. _You're going to help me?_ he thinks, and he can't ask the question aloud, even for confirmation, even for reassurance, because he's said those words once tonight and it took all the strength he has. He feels fine-drawn with exhaustion, with a weariness so deep that all he wants to do is lay his head down in the actor’s lap and weep.

Thomas is close to him, leaning in, hands still on him, and when Loki lowers his head to look Thomas tucks his chin a fraction and his gaze catches Loki's and holds it.

"You're better than you think you are. I'll show you. If you'll let me."

"Tell me what to do," Loki says, and his voice is so low it's barely a whisper, and in other circumstances, other contexts, the words would be a request for information, an offer to cooperate. That's not what he's saying. That's not what he means. _Please, please, tell me what to do. Yes. Show me. Please. Help me._ He needs and he needs so much, so many things – dark and shameful and shocking and forbidden and unthinkable – and he's lost and alone and he's been that way for too long and he doesn't know where to go or what to do and this isn't the way things should be and Thomas knows the way out of all of it.

Thomas studies his face for a moment, as if he's looking for some final piece of information there, and suddenly Loki wants to beg Thomas to tell him whatever secrets he knows, to tell him what Thomas sees when he looks at him. Then Thomas shifts away, taking his hands from Loki, and the absence of Thomas’ touch is like a blow.

"Take off your clothes," Thomas says, a little smirk curving the corner of his mouth as his voice drops an octave. He breathes, "And _kneel_."

His voice is even and pleasant but there is this little bit of _Loki_ in it that the trickster just knows he’s channelling how he’d portrayed him for the movie plays, and because of that it takes Loki a moment to realise what he's heard. What Thomas has said to him, ordered him to do. He feels shock and embarrassment and desire and a raging clawing need that's stronger than panic, and it's need that goads him to his feet fingers shaking as they work the clasps of his garments, before Loki realises that he's moved. He doesn't think as he strips off each item of clothing, laying the leathers and linens over the back of the couch at the mortal’s direction. He doesn't think as he toes off his boots.

He doesn't think as he kneels because he knows that would mess with his mind even more so. He's so hard that he aches with it, but that's want, not need. ' _Need_ ' is what's been clawing at his insides waking and sleeping for so many weeks that even the possibility it might go away makes Loki groan aloud.

Thomas tells him to put his hands down on his knees and not lift them again until Thomas tells him he can, and then Thomas reaches out and places his fingertips against Loki's temple, and Loki bows forward as if he's being pulled, but Thomas isn't pulling, and rests his cheek against Thomas’ thigh. He feels Thomas’ fingers stroke through his hair, trace over his neck and he breathes in the scent of clean cotton and warm flesh and feels the softness of the fabric and the touch of Thomas’ hand and all he's thinking, all he's feeling, is desire to follow the orders he's been given so that Thomas continues to approve, because the actor’s approval means Loki's getting it right. The pain and the fear and the anger all drain away, it's only as they go that Loki really realises they were there at all. Not gone, not forever, but they aren't his problem now, they're Tom Hiddleston’s, and that knowledge brings Loki peace.

"There's nothing wrong with this, Loki," Thomas says, and his voice is quiet and comforting, his hand still gently stroking. "Sometimes you need to stop. If you don't, you'll break. You need to know what you want… and what you need."

For just a moment Loki thinks that isn't fair: he's always thought he knew what he wanted, and he doesn't think he's ever known what he's needed. But here, now, tonight, he knows both answers. He rubs his cheek against the mortal’s thigh, and he hears Thomas make a sound of satisfaction, as if things are going as they should. Thomas keeps his hand on Loki's head as he reaches up to the waistband of his pants – Loki senses it more than sees it – and then Thomas is working the drawstring loose one-handed, sliding his fingers under Loki's jaw, lifting Loki's head.

This is what he wants. It's the answer to the only question Thomas asked, the question Loki didn't need to answer because Thomas already knew the answer. Why did Loki come here tonight?

_For this._

He leans forward, rising up on his knees without the use of his hands. He's been part of a monarchy for his entire life and he knows how to remember and follow orders when he's been given them. Thomas is hard; he has a hand clasped around the base of his cock, lifting it to Loki's lips, and Loki takes the head into his mouth, laps at it with his tongue, tastes it, and the buried painful impossible impulses, thoughts and desires and unacknowledged fantasies he hasn't wanted to own up to resolve themselves with wrenching clarity, vanishing, taking on bright reality. He opens his mouth wider, taking Thomas deeper, cock down his throat and it's bad, it's dirty, only bad dirty gods suck cock, and he is, he has been, one of those gods and he doesn't care any more, and it's want, and it's need, and Thomas’ knuckles brush his lips, and Thomas’ hand cups the back of his head, and if he's lost, still lost, but at least Loki's no longer alone.

Thomas’ hand doesn't bear him down, just as Thomas didn't push him forward and didn't push him back down onto the couch earlier. It's what's inside of Loki that does that, the thing Thomas saw and is setting loose, the thing Loki has kept locked away for so long without even knowing it was there… and somehow doing that was lying, and now, somehow, he's telling the truth with his lips, his tongue, his mouth, his body, and it's a relief to be honest. To get what he wants.

What he _needs_.

He wants to please Thomas, to be good, to do well, to do right, and the world has narrowed down to this, a simple act with a beginning and an end, a thing he's done before – other times, other places, other men – Loki knows how to please.

He wants to touch, he _longs_ to touch, but that's been forbidden, and the yearning makes him pant and gasp and tremble, gripping his knees until his fingers ache, and he laps and sucks and serves in all the ways he knows, and the cock in his mouth, down his throat, against his tongue is sweet and thick and heavy, and his jaws ache with opening and his back is bowed, and when Thomas comes, Loki sucks and licks and swallows, whimpering with the pulsing heavy untended tightness in his groin. He sucks at the weight in his mouth until it's clean and soft, licking at Thomas’ fingers, mouthing at all he can reach until Thomas’ hand moves from the back of his head to the side of his jaw, stroking, gentle and affectionate, and Loki sits back.

His shoulders ache and burn and his jaw is sore. Thomas rubs his thumb over Loki's lower lip, and Loki trembles. "You can move your hands now," Thomas says, sitting back, lowering his hand. "I want you to make yourself come."

Just hearing Thomas say that is almost enough to do it. Loki closes his eyes.

"No, darling," Thomas says. "Look at me."

So Loki does, what he's been told to, been ordered to, and he lifts his hands from his knees to touch himself. Thomas smiles, just a little, when Loki closes one hand around the shaft of his cock and cradles his balls with the other, and for one dizzying moment it's as if it isn't him touching himself, it's Thomas touching him, and he moans as he squeezes and begins to stroke, and Thomas hums in approval, nodding just a little, and Loki is watching the actor’s face, and Thomas is watching him as he touches himself, and Thomas’ eyes, big, beautiful blue eyes, Thomas’ attention, they're like another pair of hands on his body, and Loki strokes harder. Faster. He's on display and he doesn't care, doesn't care about the dry rasp of calloused hands on tender skin; all he cares about is chasing that building spike of pleasure, more intense than anything he's ever imagined. And: "Yes," Thomas says, and Loki comes with a flick of his wrist and a tease of thumb over the slit, slick and messy, come on his hands, on his cock, on his belly, and it's good, so good, the pleasure, the relief, the obedience of it makes him moan and whine and bite his lip, and Thomas sees it all.

When he's spent and finished Loki kneels there, cupping himself in sticky hands. His eyes are open, fixed on Thomas’ face, and Loki waits, without expectation, without anticipating, for the next order he will be given, reprieve, release, to lay down that burden of responsibility, of decision, even for a little while.

"That was beautiful, Loki… you’re stunning, absolutely," Thomas says, eyes soft and approval bright in them. "Go and clean yourself up."

Loki gets to his feet, staggering a little at the liberation of cramped muscles held in an unfamiliar position for so long. Who was he to kneel? When had he ever kneeled?

Only for Thomas. Only Thomas would ever get this.

He breathes deeply as he finds his balance, then walks toward the bathroom on unsteady legs and does as he's told. When he comes back, still naked, and he wishes he'd grabbed his garments, at least, on the way, but he wasn't told to, Thomas is sitting with his glass in his hand, clothing set to rights, staring into the candles, and for a moment Loki isn't sure whether the last hour happened at all. He stops and stands there, uncertain of what to do now.

Thomas looks up at him and smiles, the same smile he gave Loki at the door, and it makes Loki's stomach flutter just a little, and he feels a sense of uneasy comfort. He's been trying to get Thomas to pay attention for as long as he's known the man, and now Thomas is.

"You can get dressed now, Loki, and go if you wish," Thomas tells him. Still calm, still matter-of-fact, as if what's just happened, what they've done, what Loki's done, is nothing unusual at all. "But you’re not going to take that long to come back to me… you’ll come back here and we’ll continue this. Do you understand?”

Loki nods, and then realises he should speak. "Yes." He turns away and magicks his garments back onto his pale, cool body. Thomas is still staring into the flames.

"You can let yourself out, darling… unless you wish to break into that wine and stay…" Thomas says when Loki is dressed, and Loki stares, not expecting this after the order he’d just received.

Stay?

The raven haired god hesitates for a moment, and if there’s a rueful little smile around the mortal’s lips, he pretends not to see it. No, Thomas knows him better than to think he would stay, and so Loki leaves.

The unreality of what's just happened – what he's just done – is so intense that he can't quite get his mind around it. Later, Loki tells himself. I'll think about it later, but when he does finally walk away – taking the first step is as hard as taking the first step into Thomas’ apartment was – he has the strange sense he's leaving a part of himself behind, in Thomas’ care.

He's not sure that 'care' is the right word, and he's not sure that it isn't, any more than he's sure that the part of himself he's walking away from is the part he needs to give up… but he feels lighter.

It seems as if weeks and months and years have passed instead of an hour, but lives can change in minutes. His has.

He takes a deep breath and collects the seiðr he needs to travel between realms, then leaves.

 

*

 

He has done and been many things over the course of his life. Perhaps this, what he will do now, is the strangest. No one has ever trusted him so completely and with so little reason as Loki just has. Despite everything that has happened to him, despite all that he is now, there is a strange sort of sweetness to Loki. Strange, because it is so unexpected: beneath the anger and the pain lies a sort of wilful and determined innocence; an insistence that the world and what it holds is good, or can be.

Tom intends to help Loki preserve that quality and make it shine. And when – someday – he has led Loki to find his way out of the lost places, Tom will have found his own way out as well.


End file.
